His eyes were wide with panic, not the dramatic kind toddlers sometimes use to avoid brushing their teeth, but real fear. He scrambled toward me and clung to my legs.
“No, Mommy. No!” he cried. “Please don’t make me go!”
I blinked, confused. “Go where?”
“Daycare!” he sobbed, the word breaking in half as it left his mouth. “Please don’t make me!”
I gathered him into my arms and rocked him until his breathing slowed. I whispered reassurances that felt thin even as I said them. Maybe it was a nightmare, I told myself. Maybe he was overtired. Toddlers go through phases. Everyone says that.
So I brushed it off.
But the next morning, he wouldn’t get out of bed.
The moment I mentioned daycare, his lip trembled. His eyes filled. By Wednesday, he was begging through tears. By Thursday, he was shaking, clinging to me, pleading in a way that made my stomach twist.
This wasn’t resistance.
It was terror.
By Thursday night, I was exhausted and frightened enough to call our pediatrician.
“It’s very common at this age,” Dr. Adams said kindly. “Separation anxiety peaks around three.”
“But this doesn’t feel like that,” I insisted. “This feels different. He’s scared.”
There was a pause. “Keep an eye on it,” she said gently. “It could be developmental.”
I wanted to believe her. I needed to believe her.
Friday morning, I was already running late for work. Johnny was crying again in the hallway, and I did something I still regret.
I raised my voice.
“Stop it,” I snapped. “You have to go.”
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